


Broken Soul || Tom Riddle

by thekarmapolice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Post-Hogwarts, Redemption, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekarmapolice/pseuds/thekarmapolice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Voldemort is dead.<br/>When he wakes up in a sort of limbo, there's no memory left of who he was before the Fall.<br/>But when it's time to face what he has done, will the Demon win for good over the already broken soul of the Man?</p><p>"No one is born evil, Tom."<br/>I press my hands to my ears, trying to block out the screams. I clutch my chest in pain.<br/>I want to give in.</p><p>A short and dark oneshot about Good and Evil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Soul || Tom Riddle

I'm in the mist.

_Or am I the mist?_

I don't remember how I got here.

.

* * *

.

I feel like I've just woken up from a terrible dream. A dream that I can't recall at all, no matter how hard I try.

I look at myself. I'm dressed in a plain black button down shirt and black slacks, a striking contrast with the fog that is wrapped around me.

I search my head for a memory, anything, but there's only a blanket of emptiness. Still, I know that there's something behind it. I can physically sense it, coursing through my veins, squeezing my heart, trying to shove me back to wherever I came from.

I stand here, in this blinding greyness, waiting for something to happen. After an indefinite amount of time, I decide to move.

I take a step into the fog. Nothing happens. I take another and only the infinite silence replies. So I take another and another until I break into a run.

"Where are you going?" a voice calls me.

Startled, I stop. I whip my head towards the source of the voice, but I can't see anything.

"Do you want to see me?" The sound is getting closer to my ears. I blink with confusion.

"You can speak if you want."

 _Of course._ "Yes" I breathe.

I shut my eyes for a moment, surprised to hear my voice smooth and clear. For an unknown reason I anticipated it to be sharper, higher. Cruel.

_A hiss._

A figure emerges from the fog. It walks towards me without making the faintest noise.

A human. His face is confused, shrouded by a cloud of mist that is quickly dissipating, uncovering his features. He's an old man with long auburn hair and an equally long beard. His twinkling blue eyes are wise, familiar.

I feel the urge to avert my gaze, but it remains uncomfortably fixed on his. There's something rising heavy in my chest, an emotion I can't really name.

The man inches closer, smiling kindly.

"You are here, at last."

His voice is calm and soothing.

"Where am I?" I manage to ask.

"Hmm." The man looks around, murmuring to himself. After a moment of silence, he gasps, "Ha!"

Turning his head to look at me, he gestures to the nonexistent environment.

"Why don't you see it for yourself?" He grins broadly.

Uncertain, I move my eyes through the fog and, finally, I see it.

A book. Then another. And another. Looming in front of me, towers of volumes take shape into an ancient and massive room full of bookshelves, floating golden globes and telescopes. I even spot textbooks and novels I know by heart.

_Home._

As soon as I see sun-rays filter through the high windows, these fade into faint little lights scattered around the place. There's something missing though.

Focusing my sight, I connect the lights to their green lamps, illuminating the wooden tables they are placed on. But my eyes catch one particular table. The same one I've used for seven years, situated in the farthest corner of the room, near the last window – _I finally remember._

"The library" I whisper.

The man looks at me curiously, inclining his head. He studies me through the soft darkness, searching my face for something.

And now that I look at him, _really_ look at him, I know what is hurting my chest: shame. And fear.

The expression of the old man turns sad while the wave of new emotions stab my stomach, the beginning of a slow and merciless agony.

"No one is born evil, Tom."

_Tom._

My eyes get distant and in the fraction of a second I can see it all before me. It's everywhere; it's in my head, in my mouth, in my nostrils. I feel it crawling in my whole being.

Blood.

Long, loud cries of pain. Perverse echoes of cruel laughter. Unspeakable hissed words and... death.

Endless hours of tortures caused by short moments of fury.

I press my hands to my ears, trying to block out the screams, when I sense someone coming to harm from behind. I panic.

He grips my shoulders, trying to push me forward into a hole of darkness that wasn't here before.

"You are not weak, Tom." The man's voice is muffled by the noise and I can't see his figure anymore. "It's all in your head. You can get rid of it."

I clutch my chest in pain. My head is throbbing, my breath is ragged.

The Demon is now touching the nape of my neck with both hands. They are so cold that I shiver. So cold that I can't breath anymore.

He's chocking me.

I try to break free from his tight stranglehold, but my vision is getting blurred. Dots and shadows is all I see. I want to give in.

"Tom."

The man's voice is soft but steady.

_Tom... my name._

I try to search for a light in this obscurity.

The Demon's grip tightens and I drag the both of us down on the floor, my body exhausted. I see it clearly for a moment, the floor, only to realise that I'm kneeling in a pool of pitch-black blood. And in the blood I see the Demon. I see me.

I see myself against what I've become.

"You can fight this, Tom."

I see the light from the corner of my eyes and I want to reach it so desperately.

I want the pain to stop.

Wetness runs across my cheeks.

The hold around my neck loosens and I immediately fall on my back, gasping for air. I see the Demon rising to his feet from behind my lids and I instantly curl my body into a tight a ball, bracing myself for more pain. It doesn't come.

Instead, the floor opens into a void and I fall and fall and fall. I'm scared that this won't have an end, because... because... I know that the void is within.

The void is yawning open inside my soul, tearing and breaking what is left of it.

Green and red lights stab my chest, sending electric shocks to my brain. I scream, the sound shrill and piercing to my own ears.

_N-no more. M-make it s-stop._

_._

* * *

.

I fall on solid ground.

I wait for seconds or ages for something to happen.

I cautiously open my eyes.

I'm in the library again.

Faint light reveals a clean floor. The old man is crouched by my side, saying words I can't grasp because of another noise that doesn't want to cease.

I bring my hands in front of my face and I see them trembling. That's when I become aware of the violent sobs that are shaking my whole body.

I try to sit and calm down but I can't stop the crying.

Heavy tears cover my face and I rock my body back and forth, squeezing my eyes, images of blood and torture flooding my head.

A warm hand touches my shoulder and I flinch.

I try to remind myself that it's all finished, that I'm safe.

_I'm safe. I'm safe._

After the tremors subside, I feel it. Me.

"Nothing's left of me" I murmur. I finally look at the man. A man _I_ killed.

"No."

My breath catches in my throat.

"Nothing's left of Voldemort" Albus Dumbledore smiles. "You got rid of him."

I frown. "But... I was him. The Demon."

The old professor smiles – even though he doesn't appear so old at the moment.

"Right. You _were_. No one is born evil, Tom. The Demon was inside you, yes, but it's something you have wanted and created because you thought you were weak."

I want to retort but I shut my mouth as soon as I open it. What can I say?

Even after years of experience, Dumbledore is still wiser than I am, ready to share his knowledge and to give answers. I don't deserve it.

I've hated him and looked up to him and then hated him more because Lord Voldemort didn't need a bloody model. Lord Voldemort followed only his own steps.

He didn't need help. Or salvation.

But I did.

"And now," the professor continues "you are free of the darkness."

We remain quiet before Dumbledore breaks the silence again.

"You didn't give in... I'm proud of you, Tom."

Another tear falls from my eye. But I don't care.

"I wanted power" I say, my voice almost lowered to a whisper. "I just... didn't understand the price I would have paid. That everyone would have paid. I wanted to see the fear in my enemies' eyes, I wanted them to know what I was capable of... to have their fate in my hands."

Professor Dumbledore nods silently.

"I- I-" I stammer on a broken breath, "I've never felt so much pain."

I run my fingers through my hair. I haven't given it much thought, but it seems that the appearance my mind has conjured is human. If I was to look in a mirror, I would see the face of a man who has not been defeated yet.

I stare into my professor's eyes. "I know why you are here."

The man smiles knowingly.

"You were the first person who showed me our world... who showed me who I should have been." I take a breath, gaining time to acknowledge the words I'm going to say. "And I know that the Gods won't call my name. Not after what I have done."

Dumbledore nods again, eyes brimming with his own unshed tears.

"You have a broken soul," he sighs, "but you can redeem yourself."

_Redemption._

I yearn it so badly.

I can see its light behind the windows and it slowly takes shape into something that I love.

"It's snowing" I say, standing up and nearing the closest window. I look at the familiar landscape, the snowy mountains that surround the castle and the frozen Black Lake.

"I spent my birthdays here, you know. I used to sneak in after curfew and read books the whole night. Even muggle novels."

I chuckle quietly at the memory before turning around to face my old professor.

"I know, Tom" he says, clasping his hands behind his back. "Who do you think has placed those muggle books on that forgotten shelf?"

I smile, _really_ smile.

"So it was you who made me read _Peter and Wendy_ in fifth year."

Dumbledore smirks. "Was it an interesting reading?"

"Very" I reply honestly.

The professor stays silent for a moment, thinking, before his expression turns sad.

"I failed you". His voice is bitter. "I should have helped you when I had a chance rather than waiting for you to... commit crimes... Instead, I just kept seeing what I wanted to see, what I expected. I thought you were like-"

I shake my head. "It wasn't your fault. And I turned worse than _him_." I shut my eyes, trying to contain a new wave of shame and regret.

"Much worse" I whisper.

_He's gone, he's gone, he's gone._

I open my eyes.

"Thank you, professor" I say. I try to convey everything that's left unsaid in these three short words, pleading him with my eyes to understand.

"You are welcome, my boy" he smiles, his eyes twinkling once again.

Turning my back to him for the last time, I look in front of me.

The stark reality is behind these windows, outside of these walls. I just have to accept it.

My head feels lighter, empty. And, suddenly, a sweet sound rises from my throat, rolling on my tongue and escaping from my lips. A laugh. And I keep laughing and laughing like I have never done before.

I run against the glass, breaking it into a million of colours, and I finally jump into the sky.

.

I breath in the fresh air.

.

I welcome the Light.

.

I surrender to its beauty and I fly and fly.

.

I'm flying down.

"Please, forgive me."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you for giving this one-shot a chance!
> 
> I felt the urge to write it a few days ago and it’s a very personal piece. I always draw and paint this character, Tom Riddle, be it on my PC or my sketchbook, at home or on the train, but this time I had to express myself through words - something I do a lot though I don’t share many of my stories, because people know me as an illustrator, not a writer.  
> Anyroad, this story was inspired by two songs, "Waiting for the night" by Depeche Mode and, maybe you have already picked it up, "Viva la Vida" by Coldplay.  
> I always asked myself what Voldemort would see after his death, what he would think about his life. What would he feel? Regret?Nothing at all?
> 
> Well, I hope you have liked this story. Thank you again for reading!


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